In which the chronicler uses the word 'caveat.'

You know, when Michelle gets home you guys won't have these daily doses of me anymore. You'll be lucky to get one a week. You really should cherish each precious word as it falls from my keyboard...

Sorry. Among the many things that don't get done when Michelle's not home is the checking of my ego. Ahem. On to buisness.

I guess the news of the day would be that the doctor gave Michelle a 50% chance of survival coming home on Thursday. That would be the earliest. It all depends on how many contractions she's having and how strong they are. They have been seeing a few, but they're mild. Of course, I'm entirely aware that no man should ever be allowed to say or type the phrase "mild contractions." It's a little bit like a mechanic saying "routine brain surgery." Or something. Sorry, my similes come out weird when I'm tired.

Michelle is very thankful for your calls and visits...they make her day go by so much quicker. One caveat, if I may. She'd rather not have nine conversations a day about how sad and depressing and hard this is. You're not required to begin the conversation with "how are you" or "I'm so sorry." The phone calls are her way to connect with the outside world, and hear about other people living their actual lives Out There. If you launch into an account of what your coworker did to try to get you fired or describe in detail a pair of shoes you just bought, you won't seem insensitive. You'll seem interesting. Remember, she's doing sudokus and peeing into a tray all day.